


lettin' my heart lead me.

by redhoods



Category: UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic, Flashbacks, Getting Back Together, M/M, soldier matthew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:54:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23956444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redhoods/pseuds/redhoods
Summary: clayton rubs a hand down his face, “it wasn’t supposed to go down like it did. fuck,” he pushes off the wall, “i couldn’t really prepare for... for him.”and he can see the gears turning in arabella’s head, “the years you were gone, on the run?” she says slowly, “when the harvey’s were trying to take you out?”he nods, “met a soldier, a chaplin, in south carolina.” it felt like a lifetime ago, basically had been. he shakes his head, scrubs his hand over his eyes, “i’m gonna get some air, take a walk, you two enjoy your night. bella, call me if you need anything.”
Relationships: Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	lettin' my heart lead me.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LoveWithAGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveWithAGirl/gifts).



> i'm not sorry for my lack of proper capitalization, this started as a discord ramble actual months ago and i finally finished it and polished it up but i wasn't going back to fix it.
> 
> this is set in some nebulous present time where the military isn't homophobic or whatever. this was supposed to have more of a criminal au tilt to it but like... the feelings got in the way?
> 
> title from mama, he's crazy by the judds. there's a whole [playlist here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/08jVVLE4pzTIVRlNgjc4t7?si=k850bMKAS16wKeCKn617-A). it's... very fucking country.
> 
> happy birthday, siobhan. i'm...three days early, but who cares????

it’s just a business meeting with miriam that has clayton trailing arabella into a closed bar and through to the backrooms. nothing out of the ordinary and nothing that he really had to come to, but clayton does anyways. follows her into a small conference room of sorts, seeming out of place to the dark space that made up the bar front. he edges away from the door towards a chair, lifts his eyes, meets the very dark eyes of the man in the opposite corner, says before he can stop himself, “matty?”

and he’s dimly aware of arabella turning sharply to him, of miriam turning her head to glance at matthew, her bemused “matty?”

but matthew is still staring at him, mouth open just a fraction, frozen like some great marble statue. he jerks suddenly, “i didn’t realize,” he starts, his gaze pulling forcefully from clayton in a way that aches, “didn’t realize that your new bodyguard was joining us.”

he can’t see arabella’s face but he can picture the arch of her brow, “my bodyguard is my cousin and thus part of my family,” she says, sharp, daring. 

and matthew quells at that, gaze flicking away from all of them, jaw setting tight. 

miriam claps her hand on the table once, “is this going to be a problem or can you two behave like adults?”

“i have no problem if he doesn’t,” clayton snaps, daring matthew to look his way, but he doesn’t, continues to stare off at nothing, jaw set. 

“no, ma’am, not a problem.”

“good,” miriam says firmly, “once this meeting is over, you two are done for the day.”

he sees matthew’s gaze snap to miriam and something flash through his expression but arabella holds up her hand, “what she means is that we have a date and you boys aren’t invited.”

anyways. the meeting goes. it just goes. and clayton tries to catch matthew’s eye, tries to gauge him, but matthew won’t so much as look his away and as soon as the meeting winds down, matthew’s gone, out like a shot out the back door of the room. 

both of the women turn to look at him and clayton grimaces, can’t push himself any further in the corner. “hope you ladies enjoy your date,” he fumbles out, like that’s gonna work. 

“what the fuck, clayton?” arabella says in response, “you didn’t tell me you knew the reverend.”

he rubs the back of his neck, looks off, thinks about bolting himself, “well, i never knew him as that, bells.”

“oh,” miriam says suddenly, standing, “you.”

his laugh bursts out of him, unbidden and hysterical, a sharp bark, “so he’s told someone about me then?”

miriam’s face softens and arabella’s looking between them so quickly she’s bound to get whiplash. it’s like she knows though, cause miriam comes closer, doesn’t try to touch him, “only once, when he was so drunk he couldn’t stand.”

clayton rubs a hand down his face, “it wasn’t supposed to go down like it did. fuck,” he pushes off the wall, “i couldn’t really prepare for... for him.”

and he can see the gears turning in arabella’s head, “the years you were gone, on the run?” she says slowly, “when the harvey’s were trying to take you out?”

he nods, “met a soldier, a chaplin, in south carolina.” it felt like a lifetime ago, basically had been. he shakes his head, scrubs his hand over his eyes, “i’m gonna get some air, take a walk, you two enjoy your night. bella, call me if you need anything.”

and thank fuck for both of those women cause neither of them try to stop him from slipping out the door.  
he heads out, swings his gaze left then right, isn’t expecting his eyes to land on matthew, the shape of him large and silhouetted by street lights, lit up by the cherry of a cigarette, finds himself blurting, “i thought you quit.”

matthew’s grin is harsh, not just from the lighting, “i thought you were dead.”

it’s fair. beyond fair. really, he’s surprised matthew hasn’t hauled off and decked him, but even if the reverend’s reputation precedes him, that’s still not matthew’s style. and that’s who he’s dealing with here. 

“i know,” he replies, casting out any number of apologies and explanations he’d let himself craft on the wild off chance hope that maybe one day. 

matthew scoffs at him and the ember of the cigarettes flares bright as he inhales. it lights up his jaw when he tips his head back against the building, blows his smoke to the sky, “there’s a grave stone in south carolina with your name on it, even says ‘beloved husband’.”

the weight in his chest drops and his back hits the brick of the building, still a chasm of space between them, says, "fuck."

matthew snorts loudly, "fuck, indeed," and clayton tips his head, watches him drop the cigarette, grind it out with the heel of his shoe. and he's so much bigger now, broader, more solid, more of a presence.

the reputation should've told him that, he's heard of the reverend, everyone in their circles has. it's hard to merge that with the memories he has, the supposed stone cold killer versus the man who'd used to sing old country songs while doing the dishes in nothing but briefs and fluffy slippers.

he's not expecting matthew to turn to him suddenly, unintentionally looming just by the sheer size of him, and he's also not expecting matthew to cock his head, offer, "want to get a drink?"

it's a bad idea. terrible idea, really, but he's caught off guard, wrung out, and fuckin' lonely. selfish, maybe too.

nostalgic?

clayton blows out a breath, pushes off the wall, "why the fuck not?" and follows matthew's broad shoulders back into the bar that serves as one of the fronts of miriam's business.

\-----

it might be morning, might be midday, by the time clayton finally drags himself awake. there’s sun filtering through unfamiliar curtains and his whole body is sore. pleasantly. he’s still naked too, takes a moment to take stock, stretch out across the unfamiliar sheets, fingers seeking out mouth shaped bruises. 

finds some fingerprint shaped ones along the way and doesn’t know what to do with the heat that curls through him at it.

last night had been stupid, he can’t linger here, has to move on before the hounds at his heels catch up.

then he hears music from another place in the small house, stands from the bed, debates the scattering of clothes on the floor. the shirt he scoops up has ‘usmc’ stamped in block letters on the front and ‘mason’ across the shoulders. it hangs down to his thighs and smells like sweat and mild deodorant.

he leaves the room, only makes it to the end of the hall before he’s caught up short at the show in front of him. 

matthew, the man from last night, marine, chaplin, built solid like a fucking brick shithouse, is singing along with jeannie c. riley while scrubbing the dishes. none of that would be too much, except he’s in nothing but a pair of black briefs and a pair of ratty slippers that are probably the only thing keeping him from slipping on the linoleum.

“ _...was gonna meet that very afternoon,_ ” and a man like that should not be able to move his hips like that but clayton had seen that the previous night, “ _and they were surprised when mrs. johnson wore her mini ski_ —jesus mary and joseph, how long have you been standing there?”

clayton arches an eyebrow, smothers a laugh into his knuckles, “long enough.”

but he’s lost some of matthew’s attention, if the way his eyes drag down is any indication, the way red blooms along his cheeks and ears, and they’re both surprised when matthew blurts, “marry me.”

he oughta get out of here, beat a hasty retreat with that well presented out, but instead he shrugs, “i’m not taking your last name.”

matthew blinks at him several times, obviously processing before he dries his hands on the towel that’d been tossed over his shoulder, unveiling a bite mark that clayton had been pretty proud of the previous night. and then he’s crossing the space in several long strides. “i’ll take yours,” he says, simple as that as he crashes into clayton, lifts him right off the floor and slams him right back against the wall.

curling his legs around matthew’s hips, he hums, slides his arms over his shoulders, “matthew sharpe don’t sound too bad,” he replies.

and matthew kisses him, hard and bruising, pulls back with a wild sound, face pressing into clayton’s throat. his shoulders are shaking and clayton realizes it’s laughter so he cards his fingers through his hair, tugs gently, “somethin’ funny, soldier?”

teeth scrape over his throat and he groans low, can feel the rumble of matthew’s words through where their chests are pressed together, “fuck, i thought i was gonna wake up and you’d be long gone.”

“i shoulda been,” he replies lowly.

“stuck now,” matthew counters immediately, letting him down to the floor, drawing them away from the wall and next thing he knows, matthew is twirling him around in the sparse living room to the song playing from the kitchen.

matthew’s voice is low when he starts up with the song, “ _—i’m convinced that he’s heaven sent,_ ” doesn’t even pause when clayton snorts against his collarbone, “ _and must be out of his mind,_ ” a kiss to the crown of his head then matthew’s voice close to his ear, “ _mama, he’s crazy, crazy over me._ ”

clayton pinches his bare side gently, “guess i fuckin’ am.”

\-----

the bar is a far cry from the dive that he’d first met matthew in but he’d expect nothing less than miriam. it’s dark, mostly empty, if only because the place isn’t actually open yet, won’t be for a few hours. matthew doesn’t seem to care, strolls right to the bar, installs himself on a stool and flags the bartender down who’s wiping down glasses and pretending like he’s not watching them.

“what can i get you, rev?” he asks, eyes flicking to clayton as he slides onto the stool to matthew’s left.

matthew flicks his dark gaze over then back to the bartender, “bottle of whiskey.”

the bartender’s eyebrows lift high, “you sure?”

“yeah, dan, i’m sure.”

dan’s eyes flick back to him, accusing almost, before he turns and plucks a bottle off the backshelf, sets it in front of matthew. “i’ll leave you to it,” he turns them up to glasses and disappears into the back of the bar to the kitchens with a whistle to draw the others away too.

matthew pours them both drinks, amber liquid up to the rim of the glasses, eyes deep and dark as he glances at clayton then away again. it’s like he keeps looking to make sure clayton isn’t a figment of his imagination and that pit that’s been growing in his belly for over a decade splits a little wider.

the alcohol burns on the way down but he needs it, the grounding force of pain, as he places his glass back on the bartop, half empty. when he glances over at matthew, he’s staring at the liquor, hand huge around the glass. “it got any secrets for you?” he asks quietly, angling himself towards matthew on the stool.

“i wish,” matthew says in response, then tips the whole thing back in one go, throating bobbing as he swallows it down. his expression is a grimace when he lowers it back down and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, voice gravel, “fuck.”

something twists in his chest, “been a while?”

matthew’s already refilling his glass, “hm, four years, seven months, twenty-three days.”

“ah,” clayton says, then immediately, “fuck.”

“fuck,” matthew agrees again.

there’s nothing he’s got to say to that so he tosses the rest of his own drink back in one burning go. it means he’s not ready to lower his glass, find matthew staring at him once more, but matthew doesn’t look away this time, keeps staring. his eyes are dark in the dim light of the bar, fathomless, inscrutable, then matthew says, “why?”

clayton heaves out a breath, “people were out for my blood.”

“who?”

frowning, clayton has to look away, run a hand through his hair, wish bella hadn’t started convincing him to not wear his hat, “does it matter?”

“it does to me,” matthew bites, sudden and vicious.

it doesn’t startle clayton but it does draw his attention back to matthew, but matthew is up, moving. his shoulders are drawn tight, high, his fist flexing at his side as he walks away. “the harveys,” clayton says to his back, not sure what matthew is doing across the large space, but his voice echoes in the emptiness, “they thought i killed one of theirs.”

there’s clicking where matthew is and it sounds like a gun at first, but somehow it’s worse. speakers crackle to life and music starts to fill the space, too loud to accommodate a talking crowd, but it’s just him.

it’s just him and matthew, standing across the room, looking at him now, accusing and daring with one glance. he eats up the distance between them in no time though, offers a hand, “dance with me.”

he recognizes the song immediately, smothers a wounded noise in his throat, reaches out before he’s even thinking about it to place his hand in matthew’s as he stands from the stool. his throat is burning and his eyes are burning and he lets matthew pull him right out into the middle of the floor, draw him right into his chest.

there’s nowhere to look but matthew like this and he rests his arms on matthew’s shoulders, doesn’t touch him with his hands.

“crazy, right?” matthew says, toneless.

clayton drops his gaze to matthew’s throat.

\-----

“matthew gideon mason, have you no shame!”

clayton sees matthew lock up out of the corner of his eye, feels his own breath catch in his chest at matthew’s momma’s exclamation. it feels like the other shoe dropping on his life maybe, like she’s changed her mind about him and this.

he can see matthew turning, something like indignation on his face as he turns to square off with his own mother.

for him.

it settles something heavy and warm in his gut, pleasant and unpleasant all at once.

matthew has a lot of his momma in him, even more obvious with the two of them side by side as she approaches him, her eyebrows pinched together the way matthew’s get sometimes. the same dark hair and dark eyes, high cheeks.

“lord, boy, you think i hadn’t raised you properly,” she mutters and then reaches up to fix his tie.

the fight sinks out of matthew all at once and clayton tries not to visibly sag in their periphery, “sorry, momma,” matthew says, all gentle and easy, “you know how i am with ties.”

“two left thumbs,” she teases as she pulls it loose and begins to retie it, “how about you, clayton? how’s your tie, darlin’?”

he turns, angles himself towards both of them, meets matthew’s gaze before looking to his momma, but she’s focused on her task, tongue poked out like he’s seen matthew do before, “think i’m all good, ma’am,” he answers carely, unconsciously brushing the knot of his own tie, like he hasn’t been nervously adjusting it since they got to the courthouse.

she turns once she’s smoothed matthew’s tie down, “oh, see there, now that’s a good tie,” she says, reaching out to adjust his lapel, pressing her hand flat to his chest, “you both look handsome.”

“thanks, momma,” matthew says, a blush stealing over his face.

“your sister’ll be here any minute to be your witness and imma go make sure your father hasn’t burned the house down while i’ve been gone,” she says and clayton can see the shine of tears in her eyes as she turns more towards matthew again. she opens her arms and he folds down into them, bends nearly in half to do so, “i’m so proud of you, matty.”

clayton turns a little, to give them their time, but a hand hooks around his wrist, tugs him back as matthew’s palm fits down against his own. matthew squeezes almost too tight, “i got lucky,” he says, almost too low for clayton to hear. almost.

his momma tuts as she pulls back and gently pats his cheek, turns an easy smile at clayton, “alright, you boys be good, i’ll see you at the house.” 

her shoes click on the tile as she leaves and the hand around his tugs gently, pulls him until he steps towards matthew, to his chest, tucks himself under matthew’s chin, says to his throat, “last chance to change your mind.”

“not a damn chance.”

\-----

matthew draws him closer, chest to chest, starts them moving, actually dancing. it’s the lazy swaying circles they’d used to do in the living room of their tiny little house when they’d only had to shove the coffee table against the couch to have space. 

at this position, with his face to matthew’s shoulder, he can tell just how much bigger he is, more solid, broader. there’s a lot of power under his arms and matthew had always been big, strong, even at twenty-two, but now? thirty-six? clayton understands the reverend’s reputation.

he smells the same though, clean sweat and deodorant, only with whiskey and cigarette smoke as added layers.

clayton closes his eyes, inhales, exhales.

“why didn’t you tell me?” matthew asks, but not until the first song has faded out, until clayton isn’t struggling through every repeat of ‘ _mama, he’s crazy_ ’, “didn’t you trust me?”

the question is a landmine and clayton isn’t sure which direction to step to not set it off. “you were,” he starts, swallows, wishes he had another drink, but at least he’s not having to look matthew in the face, “you were a soldier, a fuckin’ chaplin,” he starts, a little incredulous, “from some white picket fence family, i didn’t know how to even begin.”

matthew’s laugh is low, edging on harsh.

it’s not a word that he ever thought he’d associate with matthew and clayton hates himself for being the cause of it.

“try me now.”

clayton snorts softly, shakes his head, “when i was somethin’ like seventeen, one of the harvey boys died in some accident at the river,” he explains, voice thick. a lot of old emotions roll in him and he ends up with his hand twisted in matthew’s shirt before he realizes it, but one of matthew’s palms slides against the small of his back, “the family thought i’d done it, weren’t too subtle about implying they’d get their payback.”

“so you went on the run at seventeen?” matthew asks, voice more of a rumble against his chest than actually words.

“not quite,” he relaxes his grip, keeps his palm flat against the top of matthew’s spine, “my momma sent me to live with some folks she knew, but when i turned eighteen, i hightailed it. i didn’t want her having to keep paying for me to live with those folks. plus i wasn’t less of a target, just further away.”

matthew makes no sound to interrupt him again, so they keep swaying around on the floor.

clayton swallows, breathes in deep, “so i just did whatever work i could find to get myself from town to town, never put down roots, knew they’d catch up eventually.”

“so what... two years of that?”

it’d seemed like more at the time, eons to him at eighteen, nineteen, bitter twenty. he nods his head, “i ended up in south carolina by weird chance hitchhiking,” he explains, “walked into the first dive i could find that didn’t seem like it’d card me.”

“jesus, clayton,” matthew breathes out quietly and it’s the first time he’s heard his name from that mouth in fourteen years and clayton tries desperately to swallow back the emotions that well up in him.

“saw the prettiest fuckin’ brick wall of a man and thought ‘sure would be nice to let him take me home’ and well,” he shrugs helplessly.

“i took you home,” matthew says, even quieter, barely there.

\-----

matthew is doing a last check through his bag while clayton sits cross legged at the head of their bed watching him and occasionally directing him to items around the house that he needs. he’s also restlessly twisting his wedding band around his finger in an endless loop, trying to channel the sharp, sour feeling that’s curled in his belly.

it’s not working.

the clock ticks over to eight and matthew’s going to be leaving in maybe fifteen minutes.

last night, he’d pressed clippers into clayton’s hand and sat on a chair in the middle of the kitchen while clayton had cleaned up the buzzed sides of his head. then he’d lifted clayton onto the counter, kissed him breathless before they’d made it to the couch, a wall, a second wall, and then the bed.

he hasn’t even gotten out of the bed yet this morning, thinks he probably won’t even after matthew leaves.

“alright,” matthew says suddenly, breaking the silence of the room as he zips up his duffle then edges around the bed to where clayton is sitting, wrapped up in the old quilt matthew’s momma had given them when they’d gotten the house.

clayton doesn’t reach for him, even though he desperately wants to, lets matthew come to him, unprepared for matthew to reach out and haul him bodily into his lap, chokes out a wet laugh as he curls against matthew’s chest, “gonna miss you, matty.”

matthew’s arms squeeze tight around him, “gonna miss you too,” he says, a low rumble lost partially to clayton’s hair, “won’t be too long and i’ll be back in your hair, driving you up the wall.”

“we ain’t even been married five months and you’re gonna be gone for five,” clayton protests, half hearted and petulant. he’d never begrudge matthew this, not when it means so much to him.

a kiss is pressed to the top of his head before fingers find his jaw, tips his head up so matthew can kiss him, something chaste and over too fast, “i’ll make it up to you when i’m back.”

“you better,” clayton says, surging to kiss him again, drags it out as much as matthew’ll let him. presses another kiss to matthew’s jaw and cheek when they pull apart, slides off of matthew’s lap and back onto the bed, “you better come home to me.”

“always will,” matthew says, sliding off the bed, though he leans across for another kiss before he scoops up his duffle, “love you, clayton.”

“love you too,” he calls in response, tips sideways on the bed to watch matthew’s back as he leaves, stays that way even after the front door has opened and closed.

\-----

“you were my home,” clayton tells him, because he didn’t enough back then. young and stupid and helplessly in love and so certain that he could outrun his past by staying in one place.

matthew doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t stop their swaying either, a simple solid line against clayton’s front as one song drifts into the next, into the next. the feelings don’t get any easier to swallow back, the longer they’re here like this.

there’s so much more he wants to say, wants to blurt out. about how much he missed matthew, about how much he wanted to find him after, after he got back. about how he tried to keep tabs, but the name matthew mason was just too common to do so.

about how he’s never loved anyone else the same, like he promised all those years ago.

it’s not his right to do so, not his place any longer, he gave that up with a blown up truck and a duffle bag over his shoulder on a greyhound.

“fourteen years,” matthew says suddenly.

“yeah.”

their pace slows and matthew adds, “i liked that truck.”

clayton bursts out a hysterical laugh and, once he starts, he can’t stop. the sound tears out of him until it turns into awful hitching sobs. he hates it, he’s an ugly crier, he knows he is. his face gets blotchy and there’s so fucking much snot involved, but here he is, bent over half leaning against matthew, whose hand stays warm and broad on the middle of his back.

when he starts to calm down, matthew hauls him upright and to the bar again, “better now?”

“i just,” clayton takes a swig directly from the whiskey bottle, “i just realized we’re still legally married.”

matthew is staring at the bar, eyes narrowed at the top like somehow it’s personally offended him.

clayton’s about to ask if he wants a divorce or something but suddenly matthew snorts and reaches for the bottle, says, “i guess i oughta add tax fraud to my list of crimes,” when he sees clayton’s arched eyebrow.

his laugh this time is more of a surprised bark as he passes the bottle over, “heard it’s quite the list.”

“mm, yeah, getting lengthy these days,” matthew replies, his hand wrapping around the bottle, but clayton doesn’t release it just yet, meeting his dark eyes once more.

“why?”

matthew only stares impassive, doesn’t try to take the bottle away, his fingers overlapping clayton’s in a sudden twist of movement, “you were gone and no one could tell me why. i went looking for answers, met miriam who was doing some looking after losing her husband.”

clayton lifts an eyebrow, “she killed her husband.”

“well yeah, i know that _now_ ,” matthew shakes his head, tugs the bottle and this time, clayton lets it go.

\-----

the whole house smells something awful when clayton gets home, to the point that he can smell it over himself, over sweat and dirt and whatever other shits accumulated while he was clambering around under people’s houses.

he’s headed for the bedroom, the bathroom really for a shower, when the smoke alarm goes off and he changes course immediately, “matty?” he calls, over a vicious slew of cursing as he pushes open the swinging door into the kitchen, pauses there at the sight that greets him.

matthew’s at the stove furiously batting at smoke with an oven mitt while also trying to pull a pan out and clayton intercedes just before he can grab at it with a barehand, knocks him away with a hip, “stop the smoke alarm,” he says over the noise and matthew’s startled sound. he grabs a mitt and lifts the tray of burnt something or another out. 

it clangs on the stove when he drops it at the same time the alarm cuts out and he kicks the oven door shut, turning towards matthew. who’s watching him with his lips pressed into a thin line, shoulders hiked towards his ears and face red.

“what were you up to?” clayton asks, aiming for as nonjudgmental as he can as he approaches matthew, presses his palms to matthew’s biceps, squeezes, “darlin’?”

matthew grumbles something, face somehow getting redder.

“sorry, what?” clayton asks, stepping in so they’re toe to toe, so he’s just under matthew’s chin. it makes matthew relax a little, some tension easing from him as his hands lift to find clayton’s hips.

“was trying to surprise you,” matthew says louder, mullish.

“oh,” he replies, dumbfounded.

matthew’s arms slide around him, squishing him in close, “wanted to do something special for our anniversary,” he adds, sounding so entirely put out and upset that clayton almost doesn’t know what to do with it.

he slides his hands up matthew’s arms and around his back, “so you decided to try cooking?” he can’t hold back on his skepticism even when matthew grumbles at him again.

“it’s our first anniversary,” matthew says.

“so?” clayton pokes at him a little, trying to get him to ease back to see face to face.

“so?” matthew asks incredulously, already rearing back, getting all indignant, gearing himself up in a matthew of seconds.

clayton cups a hand over his mouth to stop him, only cocks an eyebrow when matthew licks his palm, “we gotta plenty of anniversaries to get it right,” he says slowly, “well, maybe not you cooking but—” he cuts out with a startled laugh when matthew slams into him, scoops him up off his feet and deposits him on a counter, sweeping everything off the surface with an almighty clatter.

matthew surveys the damage, sheepish for all of two seconds before his gaze swings back, “i’ll clean it up later,” he says, “found a better first course,” he adds and before clayton can chastize him for being cheesy, matthew is kissing him.

\-----

“sixteen,” clayton says in response, nonsensically.

matthew’s got the bottle tipped up, exposing the line of his jaw and throat, but his arched eyebrow still speaks volumes.

“anniversaries,” he adds, looks away.

“fuck,” matthew replies and the bottle clanks onto the bartop. there’s some rustling and movement and rattling and when clayton looks over, he’s fiddling with something around his neck, a ball chain that clayton remembers seeing frequently around his neck back then.

he pulls it up from where it’s tucked into his shirt and sure enough, his dog tags are hanging from the chain. the dog tags aren’t alone and clayton has to take several steps away, towards the opposite side of the room in a burst of movement when he realizes that their wedding bands are both on the chain. his back to matthew, he presses his hand over his face, breathes against his own palm, bites down on it for several long seconds.

there’s no footsteps behind him and matthew’s voice comes from the bar, “one of these is still yours.”

clayton pivots on his heel, turning to look at matthew, turning to—fuck, he doesn’t know what he’s turning to do. yell? chastise? but matthew is halfway between him and the bar, eyes solemn and serious, holding the wedding band out between two fingers. instead, he gapes.

“you looked at me like that the first time i asked you to marry me,” matthew says, sounding too fond.

licking his lips, he swallows thickly, “the first time?”

matthew actually looks down at that, shifts on his feet, cheeks staining pink. like he’s fifteen asking some cheerleader to prom or some shit, not a one man killing team. his gaze drags back up, “i ain’t a broke marine anymore,” he explains, “we could do it proper.”

“the first time was proper,” clayton insists hoarsely, even though that’s far from the point, tacks on, “you want to—” gestures uselessly between them.

and matthew takes a few more steps, closing the distance between them by half, “i promised you my whole damn life, clayton sharpe.”

\-----

there’s sand everyfuckingwhere and matthew’s so tired of the grit in his eyes and shorts and socks and _everywhere_. even so, he’s on his ass, hiding in the shade of a humvee, back against one of the tires, paperwork on his knees as he tries to fill out a report.

boots come close and he tips his head back against the tire, manages a tired smile, “lieutenant, there something i can help you with on this... fuckin’ hot day?” he asks, but it doesn’t get the usual flash of amusement that tends to come from any of the other men when he swears. he rolls his shoulders back, squares himself off.

“father, you might wanna come with me for this one,” the lieutenant replies, lips pressed into a flat line.

matthew blinks at him, nods, pushes off the tire instead of the sand, “alright,” he allows warily, not even bothering to try and brush the sand off his fatigues. it’ll be back there in twenty minutes probably.

the lieutenant says nothing, turns on his heel, and matthew follows him through camp and into the officer’s tent, feeling much like he’s heading to the principal’s office. there’s no one else in the tent and the lieutenant turns in front of the desk, leans back against it, gestures to one of the old rickety metal folding chairs in front of it.

it creaks ominously under matthew’s weight and the lieutenant snorts quietly at that at least, so it can’t be that bad, can it?

“we just got word from stateside,” the lieutenant goes and the lead sinks into matthew’s gut, heavy as a tank, “i’m real sorry, matthew,” and not a damn person calls him that here, he’s ‘father’, he’s ‘sargeant’, he’s ‘mason’. sometimes, he’s ‘sharpe’.

“who?” he asks quietly.

the lieutenant rubs a hand over his jaw, passes a thick gold envelope over with his other hand, “your husband.”

static fills his thoughts and he takes the package, numb to his bones as he rips open the flap. there’s paperwork for him to fill out, next of kin sort of thing. there’s a newspaper clipping about an accident, a picture of a destroyed pick up truck. there’s a letter too, sealed up and addressed like it was ready to be mailed and hadn’t gotten into the box.

clayton’s handwriting hasn’t improved in the slightest, even with all the letters he’s sent.

the ring slides out last, lands on his lap.

the lieutenant claps him on the shoulder, “i’m sorry. take whatever time you need, no one’s gonna disturb you.”

\-----

“and you always keep your promises,” clayton replies back, feeling scooped out. he takes one step, two, three, crashes against matthew, bypassing his hand still holding the ring aloft. his face fits at the hollow of matthew’s throat and he hides there, shakes and breathes and tries to remember how his body works.

matthew’s arms come around him, tight, squeezing almost enough to lift him off his feet, “i’m still mad at you,” he says against the top of clayton’s head, not actually sounding mad.

“you should be, matty,” he muffles against matthew’s throat, “you shoulda tossed that thing years ago.”

it gets him a low hum, a tighter squeeze of arms around him, a cheek to the top of his head. “i never thought i’d get a miracle,” matthew says above him, pauses and his inhale is great, deep, “but damn if i didn’t know from the start that i’d never feel about anyone else what i feel about you.”

he twists his fingers in the back of matthew’s shirt, tips his head a little, says, “idiot,” against his skin, “i never deserved you.”

“ain’t about deserving,” matthew counters immediately.

clayton exhales quietly, holds like that for as long as he can stand before he inhales, “still gonna spend the rest of my life trying.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

\-----

_matty_

_your momma brought me dinner last night. i think she thinks that i have your shitty kitchen skills. or maybe she knows that i miss you as much as she does. you really do have her eyes. she wants to do dinner when you get back wants to cook and do a whole big thing with your siblings and all. i told her you’d be into something sappy like that. your sister is real close to having that kid so you better be back before then or shes gonna string you up. her words not mine._

_i cant wait until youre fuckin back matty_

_bed is way too damn big without you_

_sure you wont reconsider telling the corps to fuck off and come back to me?_

_next letter ill send a care package for you_

_love  
c_

_ps you better not be fuckin smoking matthew_

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/vowofenmity).


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